Chapter 33
Étienne
I stood in the darkness of my terrace, concealed behind the potted olive tree, watching Elena across the narrow divide that separated our spaces. The proximity felt like a cruel metaphor—close enough to monitor her wellbeing, distant enough to preserve boundaries that rational thought demanded.
She didn't know I was there. I told myself this surveillance was justified, that as her guardian I had every right to ensure she wasn't pushing past reasonable limits. But the truth sat heavier: two weeks of deliberate avoidance had done nothing to diminish the pull she exerted on my attention.
Elena stood barefoot, balanced on her right leg with her left foot pressed against her inner thigh. Her body swayed slightly, testing equilibrium with the unconscious assessment that came from years of training. The moonlight emphasized how much weight she'd lost—weight she couldn't afford to lose.
The sound of a video call ending drifted through her open door, followed by a sigh so heavy with exhaustion that I felt it like a physical blow. She lowered her left leg carefully, wincing as weight transferred through the ankle. Even from here, I could see the discoloration, the slight swelling that indicated the old injury was flaring up again.
Every instinct screamed at me to cross the distance between us. The rational part of my mind insisted I should retreat to my study, respect the boundaries I'd drawn. But my body refused, remained rooted with the same stubborn defiance that had characterized every interaction with her since the gala.
She moved through relevés, rising onto the balls of her feet with controlled precision. But I could see the tremor in her left ankle, could read the tension in her jaw that meant she was managing pain through sheer will.
Then she stopped, wrapped her arms around herself, and whispered something too quiet to hear. But I saw her lips form the shape—"Uncle"—barely a breath, not a summons but an acknowledgment, reaching toward comfort from someone who wasn't there.
The sound destroyed whatever remained of my resolve. My body was already moving before conscious thought could intervene.
"Elena."
My voice came out rougher than intended. She turned so quickly she nearly lost her balance, hand flying to her chest. I saw the progression across her face—surprise, confusion, something like relief before wariness locked down her expression.
"Uncle." Careful distance in her tone even as her eyes searched my face. "I didn't realize you were out here."
"Heard you on the terrace," I said. True, if not complete. "Just wanted to make sure you're okay."
She studied me, and I wondered what she read in my face, what truth my expression betrayed.
"I'm fine. Couldn't sleep. Training was rough today."
The admission hung between us, weighted with everything she wasn't saying. I should have offered some generic encouragement and retreated. Instead, I found myself stepping closer.
"The ball routine," I said, keeping my voice level. "Michel mentioned the triple toss when he called."
Something flickered across her face—embarrassment, or frustration at being monitored.
"I can't get the timing right on the catch. The arc's fine, the rotation's clean, but something in the transition keeps throwing me off. Coach thinks I'm not focused. That I'm distracted."
She turned to face me fully, and I saw the exhaustion etched around her eyes, the weight no twenty-year-old should be carrying.
"The triple toss," she said, her French slipping slightly with fatigue. "The more I practice, the worse it gets."
"Technical breakdowns usually come down to two things—muscle memory issues or mental interference," I said, channeling the assessment into professional analysis. "Your foundation's solid. Has been from the start. So I'd put my money on the mental side."
Her lips curved in something that wasn't quite a smile. "That's a polite way of saying I'm overthinking it."
"It's an accurate way of saying the mental game's just as demanding as the physical one. External pressure can mess with your performance even when your body knows exactly what to do."
"The way Coach looked at me today..." Her voice cracked. "Like she was ready to give up on me. I feel like such a failure."
The words hit with physical force. My fingers tightened on the railing hard enough that the metal edge bit into my palm.
"Don't say that." The sharpness surprised us both. I forced myself to moderate. "Failure means it's over, that you're not capable. What you're dealing with is a technical hurdle complicated by pressure. That's not failure—that's just what happens in high-level competition when everything starts piling up."
I could see her processing this, trying to reconcile my assessment with the harsh self-judgment her mother had drilled into her.
"The World Championships created a mental block. You're trying so hard to prove that was a fluke that you're creating the exact tension that causes mistakes. The harder you push, the more your body responds to the stress instead of the training."
She nodded slowly, and I saw a tear escape. My hand moved toward her face before conscious thought could intervene. I caught myself halfway, forced my arm back to my side, pressed my palm flat against my thigh to anchor it there.
"There's so much I can't tell my mother," she said quietly, "that I can tell you."
The implication settled between us with uncomfortable weight—that I occupied a space in her emotional landscape that went beyond typical guardian-ward relationships, that she trusted me with vulnerabilities she couldn't share with her own parent.
The observation should have reinforced my resolve to maintain distance. Instead, it highlighted how thoroughly I'd already compromised those boundaries.